Granny's Funeral Montage

Below is a montage made up of photos from my trip to Iowa for my Grandmother Margaret's funeral. The trip was sort of like a dream - lots of raining, driving, smoking and musing. If it weren't for these pictures, I might wonder if it really happened.

While taking the creepy pictures of my grandmother's corpse, I was barely able to hold the camera steady 'cause I was shaking so badly. I kept expecting her to sit up and say, "Get that damn camera out of my face you hussy!"

Of course, even if my grandmother had been alive, she wouldn't have said that, she just would have given me a dirty look and gone about her business. Unlike me, granny never liked to cause a scene.

My father and I followed her hearse down the empty dirt roads which she trudged back and forth on as a girl. The "Driftless Area" of Iowa is littered with rugged hills, valleys and impressive vistas. The grass was very green, rain fell heavily and a thick mist coated the passing landscape. We listened to Peter Gabriel's Passion and soaked in the gray Edward Gorey-esque day.

When we finally came to the place that grandma will call home for all of eternity, it felt as though we had entered some sort of alternate dimension. Such a strange thing is death, and stranger still, there is Iowa and my grandma. Rest in peace Margaret and may your dreams be grand.

Final Goodbye

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet

What is it about death that weighs so heavily upon us still breathing mortals? Why do we cling so damn tightly to this mortal coil when it is bound to bounce free from all of us in the end? Thoughts like these cluttered my head and kept me up late tossing and turning as the trucks swept past on the highway outside my hotel window.

The morning of my grandma's funeral, I woke up early and hit up Burger King for a grease soaked, high in saturated fat breakfast for under $5. How can anyone drink that much coffee? A small is the size of a small child!? I did my best not to splatter my fancy black mourning clothes with grease or watered down coffee.

Even though I visit out here a lot, each time I get reminded of the differences once you hit the middle of the country. When you are in the Mid-West you can kiss goodbye to milk in your coffee (it comes powdered), American Spirits ("American what? I ain't never seen those before..."), fresh vegetables (go figure, there are farms every which way you turn but they prefer veggies from cans) and any lettuce except for iceberg.

It is a 20 minute drive from Manchester to Strawberry Point and the road was desolate and empty. A thick mist hung over the flat fields and rain smattered the windshield. This dark and dismal weather was the perfect backdrop for a funeral. I indulged my love of smultz with some melodramatic Coldplay.

Driving through the small town of Strawberry Point always brings back a flood of memories of my grandparents and my childhood. I've been taking trips to this little Iowan town since I was a little girl to visit Jakob and Bertha Marguerite.

Driving down the main street I passed the simple white house they spent most of their lives in, then the old age apartments they inhabited once they sold the house, next came the garage my grandfather ran, and then, after passing the strawberry landmark and after driving through the 4-corner stop sign in the center of town, there is the nursing home where granny spent her last days. It is hard to imagine spending most of your life living on one small street.

Once I passed these landmarks, Strawberry Point was already close to done (it takes all of 5 minutes to drive through this little town) and the speed limit increased. 4.5 miles outside of town, I made a left down a hidden dirt road toward the historic landmark of St Sebald Lutheran Church. My grandfather's memorial was in this same church 6 years ago but, much to my regret now, I didn't go.

The dirt road to St Sebald is long and twisted and I wasn't sure if my rental car would be able to make it up the hills and navigate around the impressive potholes. The rain continued to fall and the road was a mess of puddles and ruts. Mist coated the hills and dales making the landscape look mysterious and European. Was this still Iowa or had I entered a worm hole and been transported to Scotland?!

After 4 miles on the treacherous dirt road, the church finally peeked out its pointed white head. Outside was a gray hearse patiently waiting. I did my best to avoid the muddy ruts and kept myself from getting soaked on my way into the church. Inside, my father was greeting all the old timers that used to visit my grandpa at his garage. My stepmother was cradling one of her 4 grandkids. Past the well wishers were 30 or more gray haired heads seated in a small, cozy church with bright red carpets. Off to the side, there was my grandmother.

A dead body should look dead, right? But when Tom Roberson of Roberson's Funeral Home was done with her, granny looked alive. Although she was lying on her back with her eyes closed, I was positive she was going to open up her eyes and wink at me, or shuffle her hands together nervously. It didn't seem possible that she could be dead, so alive and pink was her skin. I felt guilty staring at her, like I was being rude and watching a resting person.

I've always loved grandma's hands. They have this strange shape, sort of like a lobster claw. They are thicker in the middle and taper at the end, her fingers are thick and gnarled. She was lucky to have all her digits. My grandfather's older brother Fritz, the farmer who inherited the Swiss family homestead (thus necessitating grandpa's move to America) was lacking more than one of his digits thanks to farm accidents. Granny used to shuffle her hands nervously, they were the most active part of her body in her older days.

I tried to imagine all the things her hands had once done: the many pies her hands created; all the times they dug into the earth and planted a bulb, ripped up a weed, made breathing room for a bed of roses; the letters those hands often wrote me; the dinners they created; the clothes they sewed; the hats they knit; the quilts they sewed; and the handkerchiefs they embroidered. Those hands had created so many special things and now those hands lay immobile, itching to apply themselves to a new project.

The church was cold and they closed up grandma's casket and wheeled her to the front of the room. A large painting of a smiling Jesus with open arms loomed above us. Most of the mourners sat on the left side of the chapel. Marla joked that is what Mid-Westerners do, clump together for safety. We sat on the right side to even it out a bit. My big, silent, emotionally contained father sniffled quietly to himself. Marla's grandson gurgled.

Pastor Lin Reichstadter was an impressively dramatic show woman and she staged the service beautifully. The small church had a crackly PA system and Pastor Lin began by reading a prayer from the back of the church, her voice echoing from the speakers. Then she dramatically made her way to the front of the church to begin the memorial. She began on the left and then made her way to the right where the Christ painting loomed above her. She performed her grand finale standing next to my grandmother's casket and lifting her hand in the air as though to call all that was holy toward my granny as she spoke the words of the gospel.

Marla had enlisted her relatives to help carry the casket which was lucky as most of the people who knew grandma were a little old to be carrying such a heavy weight. They motioned for us to follow as the casket made its way down the center aisle of the church. I smiled at the wrinkled old faces dabbing their eyes and watching our procession. As the pallbearers navigated the casket down the stairs, I thought about the humor of it all. As heavy and dramatic as death is, you still have to figure out a way to wheel the casket down the stairs. Watching the rickety old wheels slowly creaking down the runners somehow grounded me.

We ate sandwiches, coffee and cake in the warm church basement. Many sweet withered faces wrapped me up in hugs and told me about their relationship with my grandparents. Alice and Alma Hanson grew up down the road from grandma and walked to school with her every morning. Rose and her husband still live down the road from her old house and also went to school with her. So many faces and names and memories. I asked Rose if my grandmother had been a happy person. She smiled wistfully and said, "As happy as anyone."

It must be such a strange process, getting old and watching all your friends drop off around you, one by one. Knowing that you are next but not knowing when exactly your number will be called. There is a certain inevitability in it all. No wonder these wrinkled arms and hands felt so strong and supportive to me, they have been through so much and are ready for what comes next.

The drive to the cemetery was an arduous but strangely calming journey. Dad took us the long way and most of it was over bumpy dirt roads through empty unclaimed countryside. Unlike the rest of Iowa, this land is full of sloping hills and valleys. Dad says it is called the "driftless area" because the glaciers, when they flattened the rest of the state, missed this one spot. And I am sure my great grandparents who came here from the distant Swiss lands of tall mountains, felt at home here in these driftless valleys.

My grandfather is buried in this cemetery as are my great grandparents (grandma's parents Louise and Fritz). The graveyard is right down the road from where my grandmother grew up. We passed her house and continued on along the very same road that she walked every morning on her way to school, through snow, sleet and rain, she walked those 3 miles every day without fail. Her house is no longer standing and the one room school house has been torn down but the cemetery remains. We listened to Peter Gabriel's The Passion and glumly watched the mist-covered landscape whisk by.

The service at the graveyard was a quick one. We stood in the harsh wind and listened to Lin say another prayer. The old women's rain hats flapped around wildly and grandma's casket stood ominously waiting to be lowered into its final resting place. I gazed out over the vast green that stretched on for miles in each direction and I felt happy knowing that this is where Grandma would spend the remainder of her days. I suppose in the end, it is all any of us can really do. Live the best life that we can and end it with as many people who are near and dear to us that we can. And for that, I was so glad to be there to share it with them all and say my final goodbyes.

I love you Bertha Marguerite Dennler Sollberger and I am glad for the little bit of time that I knew you. May your journeys be spacious and your reveries grand. I will always be on the look out for you playing your little tricks and jauntily traipsing along those old country driftless roads.

Postcards from the Heartland

To prepare for the trip out to Iowa, I needed some damn hot pants (no, it is not logical, I just did) so I splurged on some ultra chic and expensive Echo jeans. Against my better judgment, I walked away with a pair of dark blue skinny jeans (which look more like leggings than denim) and some "Ava" Citizens of Humanity low riders - how could I resist?

Granted, they were ridiculously expensive but I think Abbie is right that the fancy jeans just fit better. What can I say, when faced with the prospect of seeing my grandmother's corpse face to face, I needed to pep myself up with gluttonous purchasing.

5AM is an ungodly time to wake up but the cheapest ticket I could get to Iowa required it so, 5AM it was. The morning was wet, rainy and it was pitch black outside when we drove to the airport. I haven't flown in a year or so and it is a bigger pain in the ass than ever before. I am not sure what the logic is behind the plastic bag requirement but they now force you to place all your 3 oz liquids and gels (anything bigger goes in the trash, I kid you not) in a zip lock plastic bag.

I got busted trying to sneak a 3.35 oz bottle of hair gel past 'em and they insisted I throw it out. Instead, I sweet talked a sympathetic woman working at the airport to keep some of my over-sized toiletries until I return this weekend but I mean, come on, what a silly rule.

Next they make you take off your shoes, belt, jacket, scarf and sweater until you are basically naked. They searched my purse by hand to pull out two vials of liquid lip gloss. These glosses had to go in the plastic bag in order to be allowed on the plane. How the hell does a plastic bag make liquids somehow safe?

I suppose the minor aggravations/humiliations are worth it if it means the plane won't blow up mid-journey but I sometimes wonder if these airport screeners get sadistic pleasure in making passengers strip down to their skivvies. The lady checking my ID muttered, "Dumb ass" as a hippie girl left the line to go and purchase one of the precious plastic bags from the newsstand. Two minutes later, I had to go buy one and I swear I heard a faint, "Dumb ass."

Once you are in the air, it is impossible not to get excited by the feeling of movement. As we happily drifted through puffy, white clouds, I dozed on and off for most of the flight. The sensation of landing is so addictive, as the plane breaks it feels like your body wants to keep on flying forward, and if it weren't for the seatbelt holding you in place, you just might be able to get enough speed to be airborn, for a brief instant before you splatted into the pavement. One more flight later, I arrived in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It is a small town airport and easy to navigate.

It is funny. Once you hit the Midwest, people start looking different: longer lines at McDonalds, bigger waistlines, larger hair, more bejeweled sweaters and impressive beehives. The cultural differences between the Oakland and Cedar Rapids airports used to throw me into quite a tizzy. Going from urban to country is like jumping into a cold plunge after soaking in a hot tub - a bit surprising but sort of refreshing too.

People tend to be very friendly here as well. They go out of their way to help out strangers and out-of-towners like me. Everyone in these little towns knows each other and they stop in to visit each other and chat; babies are cooed over, husbands are discussed, children's new cars are decided upon and neighbors are analyzed. There is not much else to do in a town with one main street and two bars, one of which is called, I kid you not, "Beavers."

Midwesterners are alternately viewed as open, friendly, and straightforward, or sometimes stereotyped as unsophisticated and stubborn. Factors that probably affected the shaping of Midwest values include the religious heritage of the abolitionist, pro-education Congregationalists to the stalwart Calvinist heritage of the Midwestern Protestants, as well as the agricultural values inculcated by the hardy pioneers who settled the area. The Midwest remains a melting pot of Protestantism and Calvinism, mistrustful of authority and power. - Wikipedia

Once I hit the road in my rental wheels, it all felt familiar to me again. I remembered all the times I had driven out of this airport to go see grandma in her nursing home. It took so many hours of plane and car travel to get to her that it always felt like some sort of a quest and the prize at the end was my funny granny, her cryptic remarks and her happy exclamations about the goings on outside her window.

The flat Iowan landscape is composed of about two colors these days: yellow and blue. For far and wide are miles and miles of yellow husks of dead corn standing up to attention and above them a pale blue sky stretching on forever.

I have a fond spot in my heart for Iowa. Maybe it is because this is where my immigrant grandparents spent the bulk of their lives and eventually grew old and died, or it could be the fact that my father grew up here, but it is also beautiful countryside that speaks to my love of empty open spaces. Either way, driving along these empty, corn-lined roads feels strangely therapeutic.

As with most of my trips to Iowa, I blasted the Brit pop, Oasis and Blur. The disparate natures of the barren Midwestern landscape and the syrupy richness of British pop is too tasty. Add in some whispery, bittersweet Elliott Smith and some cigarettes and it can't get much better.

Tomorrow morning my grandmother is being remembered in a small church down a long, dirt road outside of Strawberry Point. I have never seen a dead body in the flesh and it will be particularly strange to see the empty husk of someone I once knew lying still in a coffin. I wonder if it will be like the funerals in Six Feet Under? Will there be drama and intrigue? Sex in the church closet? Naw, this is Iowa, not LA.

Some of my grandmother's childhood friends will be there to send her off proper. My father and I will be her only actual family members in attendance. Most of our clan are back in Switzerland and unable to make the journey. I am glad to be here to say my final goodbyes. Glad to take this time to remember her, not as she is now, but as she once was, young and impish, tricking her neighbors with a glass that dribbled and scampering around the backroads of Iowa, leaving her mark in people like me.

To Iowa

I'm headed out to Iowa to see my Grandmother Margaret put to rest. The ceremony will be in a small church in the small town she spent most of her life in. A lot of her friends from the old days will be there and I hope to hear lots of stories about my Swiss German grandparents who made America their home.

After the ceremony, we'll drive into the vast Iowan countryside, down many deserted dirt roads, to bury Margaret at the grave that has been waiting for her for years now. She'll be put into the ground next to my grandfather and many of their family and friends will be their neighbors underground.

It is too bad that they can't be buried together in the perfectly manicured graveyard in the little Swiss town where more of their families are buried but I suppose America became a big part of their lives in the end, so this is as fitting a resting place as any.

You can see where the little one room school house used to be from the vantage point of the hillside graveyard. It is surrounded by unpopulated, open countryside for miles and miles. It's a simple, small country cemetery, no more than 100 gravestones, home to a generation which is almost all gone.

A while ago, when granny was more mobile, my father and I drove her out to the cemetery to visit her husband's grave. It was hard to get her out of the car and over the uneven ground to stand next to his marker. Her name had already been carved on the gravestone and her death date was left blank.

For some people this sight would be chilling to look at but Margaret, with her usual carefree pinache, just chuckled to herself and didn't say much. It must be strange looking at the site of your grave but granny was never one for sentiment. Glad I can go out and see her one last time and hopefully catch some glimpse of the Margaret that once was prancing to school with a heart full of hope and excitement for what lay ahead.